


Fight, Flight or Freeze

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Fête des Mousquetaires, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 12:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5584711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could not bring himself to open his eyes and his body refused to move, and he remained frozen in place, completely impotent to do anything that would help. Written for the Fête des Mousquetaires challenge on ff.net for the prompt "Frozen".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight, Flight or Freeze

He’d heard others speak of this phenomenon in the past but had always scoffed at its existence, believing that he knew better than most what could happen during times of extreme stress. To be fair, he’d had more traumatic and near-death experiences than most his age, having been thrown into many harrowing situations where his instincts and training both served him well. Most times that meant he fought with a passion as fierce as any tiger, moving with the speed of a snake, and the cunning of wolf. It was true that he wasn’t always the victor but he could claim that he’d won more than he’d lost, something that further bolstered his self-confidence.

 

He’d known men who, when faced with any sort of opposing force, would choose to flee. Often these men would be labelled cowards although, through Athos’ tutelage, he would admit that there were times when withdrawing was the smarter alternative. To say that he willingly embraced that option would be a fallacy, however, and he understood that his natural inclination would always be fight over flight.

 

This experience was new to him. Never could he claim to have felt rooted to the ground, as though frozen in place, entirely incapable of movement despite his desperate need to do so. It was as though his mind has lost its connection with his limbs and the messages he frantically sent were lost in the ether, like wisps of a cloud on a windy day. The pistols pointed at Athos’ head had brought him to a full and complete stop and he’d nearly stumbled with the abruptness of his cessation of movement. The weapon he held in his hand seemed just as disconnected from the rest of him, and he marvelled at the fact that it was still raised and aimed toward one of the thieves they’d been chasing.

 

How the men had managed to get the upper hand against Athos was anyone’s bet, the Musketeer possessing skills with a blade that d’Artagnan could only dream of one day emulating. Despite that, the older man stood with his arms held away from his body, his hands turned palms upwards in a gesture of supplication that seemed incredibly wrong for this brave, proud soldier. Before his eyes had stopped responding, the Gascon had noted the dull glint of his mentor’s sword on the ground as well as the empty spot on the man’s belt where his pistol usually sat. Since then, his eyes had fixated on his mentor’s face, unable to look away lest the unimaginable happen.

 

It was surreal. He felt trapped in his own body, his mind churning at a dizzying rate and yet producing nothing of value – no way he could save his friend from having his head split apart by one of the men’s shots. The image of a watermelon shattering on top of Aramis’ head suddenly assaulted him, except the juices turned darker in his imagination, seeing blood scattering as Athos’ skull flew apart. He clenched his eyes tightly closed and forced himself to focus on the here and now, opening his eyes once more to be assailed by the reality of the situation – Athos would have his head blown off by one or more of the men’s pistols, and d’Artagnan’s single shot was woefully insufficient to tip the scales in their favour.

 

While he struggled against his unwilling body, his mentor’s face was calm and almost accepting. It was wrong on so many levels. Athos was strong, stalwart, and an incredible force made all the more effective by the way in which he yielded his power – quietly, without fanfare, confident, and always for the benefit of others. That he appeared to be so ready to accept his fate now thawed a part of the young man’s brain and he became aware of his heart beating madly in his chest, its rapid racing signalling his panicked state.

 

“Put it down, Musketeer,” a voice cut through the haze that seemed to have encompassed his mind and he absently felt his body shudder as he was startled by the sound. With effort, he managed to pull his eyes away from Athos and focused on the man to his right who was now looking at him expectantly. When he saw the confused expression on d’Artagnan’s face, he repeated his order, “Drop your pistol or I’ll shoot.”

 

The Gascon’s gaze returned to his mentor’s, seeking some sort of direction from the man who’d guided him so often in the past, but Athos’ face was impassive, offering nothing to the frozen young man. “You think I’m kidding?” the thief snarled, now straightening his arm as if to bring the weapon closer to his target, d’Artagnan’s eyes tracking the motion but not comprehending its meaning. “Are you daft, man?” the thief mocked, getting angrier at the Gascon’s continued lack of cooperation.

 

“d’Artagnan, it’s alright,” Athos called to him, his soothing voice cutting across the distance that separated them.

 

_“No, there’s nothing alright about this!”_ a voice inside his head screamed, and the young man’s eyes shut again as he fought against the contrary messages he was hearing. He could feel the fine tremors that were beginning to make his arm shudder, the pistol in his hand suddenly seeming to weigh much more than the limb could support. Still, he could not bring himself to open his eyes and his body refused to move, and he remained frozen in place, completely impotent to do anything that would help.

 

The shots rang out one right after the other, echoing around the square where they’d been standing as the sound bounced off the stone walls that surrounded them. The sound was thunderous and d’Artagnan startled badly, his fingers releasing their hold on his pistol and accomplishing what the thief’s commands had been unable to as his weapon clattered noisily to the cobblestones. In that instant, he felt the fear that had held him release, like ice on a frozen river cracking apart with an intense fury. For a moment, he felt as though he might fly apart, his essence scattering as all sound and air seemed to be sucked away.

 

Seconds later, reality returned in a rush, and he heard the strangled gasp of someone struggling to breathe, realizing moments later that it was him. His eyes flew open and a sob was pulled from his chest as he looked down at the still form of his mentor, the man lying limply on the street in a growing pool of red.

 

“No!” he screamed, unaware that he had done so as control of his body returned and he found himself suddenly beside his brother, kneeling in a pool of blood that ran freely from the man’s head. Uncaring about the thick, red liquid, d’Artagnan scooped Athos into his arms, the Musketeer’s head falling limply against his shoulder where he continued to bleed, turning the Gascon’s brown doublet almost black.

 

“No,” d’Artagnan sobbed, his arms wrapped tightly around his mentor’s upper body as his very soul fragmented. He’d felt this pain before, when his mother had died and again when his father had been murdered. The first time he’d been too young to properly understand and it hadn’t been until weeks later that he’d realized that his beloved mother would never sing to him again, never brush his unruly locks from his face, and never tuck him into bed as she told him that she loved him. He’d cried so long and hard he thought he’d never regain his breath until, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, the pain had eased and he’d resumed living.

 

The next time he’d held his father in his arms, not even realizing at first what was about to be taken from him until his father had exhaled for a last time and his lifeless eyes had closed. His father’s death had been so much worse, his heart remembering the agony of losing a parent and wailing with abandon against the injustice. The only thing that had saved him was his thirst for revenge, the strong emotion driving him and distracting him from his feelings of loneliness and anger. When he finally had time to grieve, his brothers had surrounded him, and their presence had made the loss somehow easier to bear. This time they would all be broken as one; without Athos, they would be cast upon the wind, each seeking solace in their own destructive ways, denying the brotherhood that made them all stronger.

 

“d’Artagnan,” a voice near to him called but he refused to answer, his grief all-consuming. “d’Artagnan, you must let go.” He was aware of shaking his head, closing his eyes against the hot tears that flowed like rivers down his cheeks. “d’Artagnan, please,” the voice pleaded and he registered the presence of a warm hand on the nape of his neck.

 

Opening his eyes he blinked against the salty liquid that still filled them, struggling to swallow and catch his breath. He could see Aramis crouching in front of him, ready to relieve him of his burden with his hands at Athos’ back so he could lay their friend down on the ground. “Please,” the marksman repeated and d’Artagnan loosened his hold, allowing the man to take Athos from his arms.

 

Beside him Porthos kneeled on one knee, the man’s hand moving from his neck to grip him by the shoulder instead, pulling the Gascon toward him and into a comforting hug. d’Artagnan knew he would be embarrassed later but he hid his face in the large man’s broad chest, his body racked with another round of sobs at what he’d lost. He could feel Porthos’ voice reverberating in his chest but could only hear the sound of soft murmuring above him, the large man’s words indistinguishable. But it didn’t matter what was being said; nothing would ever matter again, not now that Athos’ light had been extinguished.

 

“d’Artagnan, we need to go,” Porthos said, and the Gascon became aware of the fact that the man was rubbing his back. Pulling back slightly he tipped his face upwards, seeing the large man’s empathetic eyes pinned on his own. “Can you stand?” he asked, already making motions to rise and then pulling them both to their feet where the Gascon swayed before regaining his equilibrium. Porthos still had a hand around his upper arm, waiting until he was confident that the young man would not fall over. “You good?” he asked before letting go. d’Artagnan gave a small dip of his chin, pulling a soft grin from the larger man. “Good, Aramis says we need to get Athos back and it would be hard to carry the both of you.”

 

A puzzled look crossed the young man’s face and he looked over at Athos and Aramis, the former now sporting a stark white bandage around his head. “Why?” his brain questioned, trying to comprehend the reason that the medic would bind his mentor’s wound.

 

Unknown to him, he’d voiced the question and it was Aramis’ turn to look confused as he replied, “I have to keep the wound clean until I can stitch it.”

 

“Why?” d’Artagnan repeated, still not understanding what he was being told.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Porthos grasped his chin and turned his face toward him. “Did you think Athos was dead?”

 

Numbly, the Gascon nodded and seconds later found himself crushed once more against Porthos’ chest, the large man whispering in his ear, repeating the same words over and over again, “He’s not dead, d’Artagnan; he’s not dead.”

 

It took several moments before he understood the large man’s words and, when he did, the relief washed over him in waves, his legs becoming weak and threatening to drop him to the ground. Porthos felt the change in the young man’s body and merely tightened his hold, keeping the boy upright until he felt the change in the Gascon’s body that signalled his returning strength. As d’Artagnan began to pull away, Porthos’ dropped his hands, watching the young man carefully to ensure he’d remain standing. The Gascon wiped a hand across his face to rid it of the remaining signs of his grief, indicating with his other hand that Porthos should lift Athos so they could leave. As they walked back through the Parisian streets, following Porthos with his precious cargo, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but shiver at the memory of how he’d been frozen in place.

* * *

The candles had nearly burned down by the time that Athos woke, d’Artagnan sitting at his bedside, unable to sleep until his mentor awoke. It had been two days since the man’s skull had been grazed by a bullet, Aramis and Porthos just a split-second too slow to prevent one of the thieves from loosing his shot. Unlike the men they’d been chasing, Athos still breathed, and d’Artagnan watched with fascination each rise and fall of his brother’s chest. It was this focus that first alerted him to Athos’ return to consciousness, the regular breathing speeding and then hitching as the pain in his head registered.

 

Leaning forward, he placed a hand on his mentor’s chest, whispering words of comfort to ease the man’s transition to awareness. When Athos’ eyes opened and he was treated to a view of the bright blue orbs, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but smile, his heart feeling lighter than it had in days. He waited for nearly a minute for the man to speak, but Athos just laid there, staring at him, and the Gascon’s stomach dropped as he recalled Aramis’ words about the possibility of brain damage.

 

Seeing the young man’s expression morph from joy to trepidation, Athos spoke, “d’Artagnan.” His voice was hoarse with disuse and he couldn’t help but wince at the dryness of his throat. Seeing his mentor’s discomfort, the Gascon gently lifted Athos’ head and tipped a cup of water to his lips. Once Athos had swallowed a few sips, he tried again, “You’re alright.”

 

d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed at the odd comment, since his life had never been the one in jeopardy. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “You were the one with two pistols aimed at your head.”

 

The statement brought a rare upturning of Athos’ lips, serving to only confuse the Gascon further. “I was worried,” Athos clarified. “You seemed to have no idea of what to do.”

 

d’Artagnan ducked his head, eyes locked on his lap as his face flushed with shame. Even though his mentor had just awoken, he’d immediately identified the Gascon’s earlier weakness. Swallowing thickly, he raised his head, determined to apologize for nearly costing the other man his life. “I’m sorry; it was as though I was frozen in place. My mind refused to work and my feet were like lead. I know I let you down.”

 

Despite the throbbing in his head, Athos could clearly see the young man’s guilt, even though there was no fault in how he’d behaved. “d’Artagnan, you did nothing wrong.” The young man’s eyes darted away from his and he could tell that the Gascon disagreed. “It was an untenable situation. If you had dropped your pistol, you might have been shot as well. At least this way, the men were brought to justice.” Athos raised his eyebrow questioningly with his last words, and d’Artagnan gave a short nod, indicating the accuracy of his statement.

 

The ache in his head was escalating the longer he was awake, but he pushed forward, understanding that the Gascon’s guilt needed to be dealt with sooner rather than later. “You have never found yourself in this situation,” he began, his words a statement of fact. “You will recall from our lessons that I spoke of this; when faced with a foe, men will fight, flee or freeze.”

 

d’Artagnan remained motionless, neither confirming or denying his mentor’s words, but Athos could tell that he still had the boy’s attention. “You did not believe the latter condition to be true, having never experienced it and believing you were stronger than others who had.” Again, the Gascon’s eyes momentarily danced away in embarrassment at the truth of the wounded man’s words. “d’Artagnan, do you believe me to be a coward?”

 

The abrupt shift in direction caught the young man unaware, his gaze darting back to Athos as he emphatically shook his head, “Of course not; you’re one of the bravest men I know.”

 

Allowing the compliment, the older man pressed on, “When I was fourteen, I encountered a boar during a hunt. Despite being surrounded by other armed men and holding a weapon of my own, I found myself quite incapable of movement or rational thought. I was terrified and certain that I was about to meet my end, but one of the others shot it and saved me. I believed myself a coward, something less than a man, for my inability to protect myself, until my father’s huntsman spoke with me. He reminded me that if I had fled in that moment, the boar would have surely charged and there was no way I would have been able to outrun it; therefore, flight would have been counterproductive. Had I lifted my harquebus and shot, I would have only angered it, since the angle I had was all wrong, making fight the wrong strategy. The only one remaining to me, and the one that saved my life, was to freeze, relying on those around me to help.” Athos fell silent, forcing himself to breath slowly as he waited for the pain in his skull to ease.

 

d’Artagnan considered his mentor’s words, recognizing their wisdom while also disagreeing with a key point. “But _I_ was the one with you and _I_ was the one who froze. It was Aramis and Porthos who fired the shots that killed those men.”

 

With an indulgent look, Athos countered, “So you see my point. As Musketeers we are never alone, and if you’d moved before they’d arrived, I would surely be dead.” The Gascon’s expression still showed his disbelief so the older man continued, “What would you have done if you hadn’t frozen?”

 

The young man’s brow furrowed in concentration at the question, having asked himself the same thing a thousand times since Athos had been shot. He still had no satisfactory answer and had yet to identify a strategy that didn’t end in his friend’s death. As if sensing the young man’s thoughts, Athos stated, “The only choice you had was to do nothing, d’Artagnan. If you’d shot one of them, the other would have shot me. Worse yet, one of them could have turned on you and we’d both be dead. As much as it galls you, this was the best, the only option available to you.”

 

d’Artagnan had thought himself too inexperienced to find a solution to the dilemma he’d faced but here his mentor laid, weary and in pain, trying to convince him that no other solution existed. He’d worried the problem around and around so many times that he could no longer think clearly, and yet Athos cut through all of the confusion with one clear answer – there was nothing else to be done. As the idea took root in his head, he could feel the blame he’d been carrying lift, the lines of worry on his face smoothing as he accepted his mentor’s guidance. After all, if Athos endorsed inaction as a viable strategy, then there must be some merit to it.

 

Unable to put his gratitude into words, but sensing that Athos was staying awake until he’d comprehended the lesson, d’Artagnan gave a slight dip of his head in reply. The older man’s features softened and his eyes slipped closed, unaware of the fact that the Gascon reached forward and pulled the soft blanket upwards, tucking it in carefully around his mentor’s shoulders. Leaning back in his chair, d’Artagnan resettled himself, the icy dread that had chilled him from within finally replaced with a feeling of warmth.

_End._

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fête des Mousquetaires challenge for the prompt "Frozen". For information about how to participate, as a writer or to vote, please see the forum page on fanfiction.net under Musketeers. 
> 
> Thanks to AZGirl for her speedy beta of this story; remaining mistakes are all mine.
> 
> Thanks for reading and Happy New Year!


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